I attended a terrific workshop the other day, and I came home with a whole lot of thoughts. I’m not a workshop kind of person. I’m kind of an anti-meeting person altogether, so this was somewhat of an anomaly for me. I’ve always written on my own, albeit aided by invaluable words of wisdom from other authors on the internet and in books. I’m a bit of a hermit, and I’m also an insanely busy hermit. The idea of sitting stationary for a few hours, listening to other people talk, doesn’t always entice me. But I really wanted to meet these authors, since they’re all from my area. Plus, they’re all members of the RWA, and I’m not, so I wanted to get a feel for what I might be missing. I'm so glad I went. 

What struck me the most was how different a lot of the perspectives were … and how different some were from mine. I had a couple of beefs, but I’m keeping those to myself, because really, everything in writing is subjective (except for grammar and spelling). Nothing I write is any more valid than something anyone else might write.

But I woke up this morning with a niggling thought—you know those? Those little voices that won’t shut up long enough for you to convince them that you’re too busy to write a blog? Anyway, mine was insistent, and I did think its idea was interesting, so today’s blog is about SEX.

Writing sex, anyway.

One of the questions put to the panel yesterday was by an author uncomfortable about writing graphic sex and/or violence. I can’t recall all the responses, but I got the general feel that the author should just do it, dare herself, be free! And yet … I’ve written a lot, and I still am uncomfortable writing either. In this day and age, where we’re relatively dulled to violence and hard to shock when it comes to sex, do we have to juice it up? Write such rip roaring scenes that you’ll get past the rest?

In my opinion, no.

I’ve written relatively sexy stuff (which I haven’t even considered publishing), and that includes a couple of wedding nights. And oh boy, I’ve written violence. My most controversial scene of “Under the Same Sky” was one of the first things I ever wrote, and it shocked me to the core. I had no idea I had that in me! I wrote absolutely everything my character saw, everything she heard, everything she felt. Through my words, the reader knew every little thing that was going on. Then I remembered that readers had brains and imaginations of their own. I cut, cut, cut, and in the end I came up with something a couple of people have called “Fade to Black” violence. I created the setting, built the tension, put up signposts and fences so the reader couldn’t avoid the scene, but I let the writing suffice. Did I have to indicate every kick, every punch, every thrust? Did I have to repeat the abusive language those creatures used? No. Absolutely not.

When I’m reading, two things will prompt me to set a book aside, unfinished. Predictability and Redundancy. Do I know just about everything about the characters and story within the first few pages? Yes? Not interested. Do I need to learn the details of how to tie a knot? The material on the chairs in a room? The weather? Unless these things are directly related to the storyline or are a central focus of the scene, I could care less. Touch on them, but let’s not dwell, people. I get bored. 

The same goes—for me—with writing sex. I figure we all know how sex works, right? Insert Tab A into Slot B, create friction … Why do I have to include thrusting or sweating or groping or panting? And don’t get me going on descriptions of how she’s feeling during her orgasm. I can build to what’s going on through other actions, but once my characters are into it, they’re on their own. 

On the other hand, I’m not going to just shut the door on what’s going on. Take this example from “Sound of the Heart.” It was actually pretty graphic for me.

He wanted her to love this, to feel the exhilaration he felt. He wanted her to want more. He certainly did not intend for this to be their one and only time. He tried varying his speed depending on the little purring noises she issued, then realised he couldn't stand thinking anymore. He closed his eyes as a familiar, delicious rumble began deep within him, taking ahold and growing, wave after wave, taking possession of his mind and body.

Not one thrust, not one unnecessary grab, though I’m sure there were plenty in his mind. I could have gone into the down and dirty descriptions, but in my heart, that was enough. I didn’t look away, but I didn’t take away from Dougal’s moment by over-narrating, either.

I think there are three distinct schools of thought on writing sex and violence. The first would be the hands-off, the author who wants nothing to do with writing more than a peck on the cheek. The second is the full frontal, go-for-it, no holds barred (or add in holds just for the thrill of it, if you’re into erotica). But the third is one that people often forget, and that’s Fade To Black. 

What I want to say to readers is ... if you’re looking for more graphic stuff from me, it isn’t forthcoming. I am in my characters’ heads already. They deserve a little privacy now and then. 

What I want to say to writers is ... if you are uncomfortable about writing sex or violence but it’s necessary for the story/scene, consider writing Fade To Black.

Barnes & Noble, the largest bookstore chain in the U.S., is closing a third of its stores over the next decade, they say.

In 2011, Borders Bookstores shut down all their stores.

Up here in Canada we haven't heard any mutterings—or not many, anyway—about closing our Chapters Bookstores, but can it be far off?

I find this whole scenario interesting. People are furious, sad, or even celebrating, but no one is without an opinion. I was sad at first. Nostalgic, really. Then I started to think about it a little deeper.

Yes, I think that when these huge box stores shut down, there will be fewer books sold. And as an author, that's obviously not good. I think the books bought in these stores are mostly impulse buys, not planned ones. That is neither here nor there, but here's the thing. When I go to Chapters—and I love to spend a couple of hours there, just wandering, perusing, latte in hand—I never leave with just one book. I grab the one I came for (if I came with one in mind), then … well, it's like popcorn. I can't stop. Everything's so pretty and exciting and colourful and inviting! How can I just walk away and leave all those books? What if I miss the ultimate adventure of a lifetime?

But let's look at another story.

… there was a little bookstore near my home. Actually, it wasn't all that near. It required that the whole family get into the car and drive, then look for a parking spot (because there weren't any big parking lots around there), feed the meter, etc. But all that effort was worthwhile, because we were out doing more than just buying a book or two. It was an event, almost.

Beside that store was a little hardware store and a Chinese grocery store (where they had a "pet" snapping turtle in their basement who was over 75 years old! They let me visit it when I was small), and an adorable little store that sold loads of special cheese and a bunch of little figurines that I collected. A couple of doors down from them was a children's clothing store. There was even a butcher on that little street. I loved when we went out to visit those places. We always knew the owners—sometimes even their families. They were always happy to see us, whether or not we bought anything. We usually did, though. We understood it was their business, their livelihood, and we were more than happy to be a part of their success—and in return we got both good products and personalized service.

Then one day a major sports store took over half a block. We'd never seen anything like it, so we popped in … and left with our arms full of bags, even though we really hadn't needed anything to do with sports. They were such good deals! There was so much choice! It was just so darn exciting to be in there, with the young, energized staff, the flashy promotional messages, the funky music blaring through the speakers. Just made you want to dance while you handed over your Visa card. Over time, they started selling ladies' clothing as well, so we stopped visiting the other store. They'd be fine without us. Or so we thought.

It wasn't long before a huge grocery store moved into the neighbourhood. Again—what choice! Everything laid out like presents at Christmas … and ooh! look at those things we've never eaten before! We need to buy some of those! One of the saddest memories I have as a child was finding out that our cheese/figurine shop had gone out of business about a year after that.

I hardly noticed the changeover when Chapters opened, and it was only in passing that I realized our little bookstore was gone. I was first in line, Visa in hand. And I haven't stopped shopping there since—except for when I actually take the time to go out and visit the rare independent bookstore or when I shhh! shop online. Even then, I always try to buy my books online from Chapters, not Amazon. Just on principal. But really, isn't Amazon just a bigger box store eating all the smaller box stores? And we used to celebrate these massive stores when they arrived.

Now times are a-changing. The E-book revolution has changed the world, yes, but more than that, it was the internet. 

Before now, we had no idea of the millions of books out there. Actually, I doubt there really were millions of books out there until the internet, when it suddenly became possible for anyone at all to write and sell books. But back then, one of the more relaxing, enjoyable things for me was stopping in at the little bookstore, browsing, then buying just the right book. Not being handed promotional postcards, being shuffled towards the gift section, or having tables of $5 books slid in my path. Just finding something that would take me away.

So what will happen now? It's not as if books are going to go away. You'll always be able to find the #1 Bestselling Amazon Book! or the Free Book of the Day! online. You'll still be welcome at any library, and your friends will always lend you books. But oh, those hours of lost time, wandering the bookstore aisles, picking up books on impulse because of the pretty covers and managing to grab a candle or bowl for a friend's birthday at the same time … How will we survive?

I moved to a small town five years ago, so the internet has become a very easy way for me to pick up books. We have no small store here. I have to go half an hour before I can find a Chapters store. So yes, I'm starting to increase my online shopping. And I do love when a book arrives in the mail. 

But what if--and, like I said, there's no talk of this at all, so don't go around saying "Genevieve said so! I'm just hypothesizing—Chapters closed down. What would I do? Yes, I could drive to the closest independent bookstore, once I found out where that was. Yes, I could continue to shop online. 

But what if … the shutting down of box stores meant the rebirth of independent stores? What if my little town all of a sudden offered a tiny bookstore? What if Future Shop closed and little electronics stores opened instead, and we got to know the actual owner, not just a hired hand? What if big grocery chains had to downsize? Well, we all have to eat. Maybe if the giants aren't there to take all the money, those quaint little grocery stores with the handwritten price labels could come back. Maybe we could even attend farmers' markets and end up eating better, supporting local.

The #1 thing box stores and the internet give us, in my opinion, is convenience. We're spoiled. It'd take some time, some adjustments, but personally, I don't think I'd be all that sad if those massive stores were gone.

The world is shrinking, and we're all fitting quietly and easily into those narrowing borders. Despite all the talk we do about reading labels and avoiding GMOs, I believe I served a Mexican tomato in our salad last night because it's just too darn cold to grow them here in January, and we wanted a tomato! *stomp stomp stomp* But really, couldn't I have waited? Couldn't I have eaten something else? Couldn't I have stopped being spoiled and accepted what I was given without complaints?

As an author, I will sell fewer books if the big stores are gone. I know that. I'm sure a lot of people pick up a copy of one of my books completely on impulse, because of the pretty cover or the intriguing blurb on the cover. Not because the shop has propped it up as a "featured book" at the front counter. Because, in case you didn't know this, all the books you see featured at any of the big bookstores are being featured not because the bookstores choose to do it, but because the publishers have put big bucks into those displays. Can you really see everyone racing out to buy books like 50 Shades or Hunger Games if they hadn't been stacked to the ceiling everywhere you turned? Without some great marketing miracle, you'll never see a new or local author featured that way (except at a signing). We can't afford to pay for that.

Big Box bookstores closed a ton of small bookstores. The internet is closing a bunch of those Big Box bookstores. I don't think it means fewer people are reading—in fact, I think because of ebooks and the ease of internet shopping, the opposite is happening.

I'd miss the hours of wandering through bookstore aisles, reading samples. But I love the idea that these closings might be opportunities for new doors to open. Independent stores. They won't be nearly as hard to find if this happens, I'm betting. And I'm all for that.

I tried to put this on my facebook page in a poll but that totally messed up, so my always brilliant husband told me to try it on here instead. So here goes.

Penguin and I are looking for a new name for Book #3 in the series. It's about Adelaide, Maggie's quiet sister, who is still living with the Cherokee. She must get past her fears so she can love/live again. The word "Dreams" is used in some of these suggestions because she can dream of the future (like her sister did) but she's afraid of what she might see. In the end she's forced to face the dreams if she is to save the one she loves.

I originally called the book "Out of the Shadows," but Penguin salespeople say that's too horror/paranormal for this book. Keep in mind they want the title to be similar in softness to "Under the Same Sky" and "Sound of the Heart.”

I want to get the title to Penguin by THIS FRIDAY, JANUARY 11. Can you help me? Here are a few suggestions. What do you think? You can choose up to three, if you'd like. Have a different idea? If so, please click on "Other" and fill in the blank!

Summary:

What happens when a struggling actress and a grieving widower come together in a night of unbridled debauchery orchestrated by a bored and machinating rake? With the devil in charge...there will be hell tp pay!

She’s a lonely lady down on her luck... Phoebe Scott, alias Kitty Willis, is a struggling Covent Garden actress with a bruised heart and a closely guarded secret. 

He’s steadfast and eminently respectable.. Sir Edward Chambers, Ned to his intimates, is guilt-ridden over his beloved wife’s death and avowed to live out a rustic and mundane life … of celibacy. 

With the devil in charge — there will surely be hell to pay. Devil in disguise, Viscount Ludovic DeVere, is determined to return his best friend, Ned, to the land of the living. His meddling machinations result in a night of mind blowing passion after which “dull dog Ned” awakes to find himself in the King of England’s bed!

Excerpt:

"But I know that look, DeVere, and it always bodes ill."

"Come now, Ned," DeVere cajoled. "With only weeks until matriculation, we may never get another chance to serve up some revenge on ole' Trasker."

"What have you in mind?" Simon asked.

"Since our dear pedagogue is so fond of bear-leading, why not procure one for him?"

Ned looked stunned. "You wish to buy a bear?" 

"Of course not," DeVere answered.

"Thank God," Ned replied with a sigh of relief.

"I only wish to borrow one."

"A bear?" Simon repeated.

"Yes. It can be a small one. As to age, size, or gender. I am not particular."

"And how do you propose to find one?" Ned asked warily.

DeVere replied with a look of pure devilment. "I propose a midnight foray to the Royal Menagerie." 

Author:

A lover of history and deeply romantic stories, Victoria Vane combines these elements to craft romantic historical novels and novellas for a mature reading audience. Her writing influences are Georgette Heyer for fabulous witty dialogue and over the top characters, Robin Schone , Sylvia Day, and Charlotte Featherstone for beautifully crafted prose in stories with deep sensuality, and Lila DiPasqua for creative vision in melding history with eroticism. Ms. Vane also writes award nominated romantic historical fiction as Emery Lee (http://authoremerylee.com)

When I first conceived A Wild Night’s Bride, a Georgian set, Hangover-inspired romantic comedy, I had no idea that one devilish secondary character would spawn an entire series, but Ludovic, Viscount DeVere, proved to be a dream come true. This larger than life character has captured the hearts of so many fans who have begged for more DeVere. In response to these requests, I have not only decided to continue the series, but have recently commissioned an amazing artist to render gorgeously detailed full color illustrations for my DeVere stories! My goal is to offer a wonderfully enhanced reading experience to fans of my series. 

The first book to be illustrated just in time for all those glorious full color and graphics capable Christmas e-readers, is Devil in the Making, The Illustrated Edition. This book will feature a gorgeous depiction of the key scene in every chapter. If this experiment is successful, I will be illustrating the entire DeVere series (old and new) over the next 12-18 months. As a holiday greeting, I am attaching a sample of the absolutely stunning photorealistic artwork that will grace the new book cover as well as the inside pages! Now, without further ado…. Here is how it all began….

Devil in the Making: A Devilish Vignette by Victoria Vane 
Every devil has a beginning... A rebellious young nobleman's prank with the king's lion goes comically awry, leading to a startling chain of events. A riotous Georgian romp in the tradition of Fielding's Tom Jones and a prequel to the Devil DeVere series.

#1 GRAND PRIZE:

Kaki Warner's acclaimed trilogy: THE RUNAWAY BRIDES—three strong-willed women headed West in search of new lives. But when their train is stranded in a dying Colorado mining town, they get more than they bargained for…and find love where they least expect it.

GRAND PRIZE #2:

"Lightning paced, innovative, topical … and most of all, frightening." 
-- James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author

Summary:

When the fate of worlds rests on shifting loyalties and the vagaries of the human heart, will time and history slip into shadow?

1515 Venice, a city of art, music and commerce, wealthy, greedy, whose rulers engage in war as simply an extension of commerce by other means. Cosimo de' Medici, capo of an ancient family with uncommon power, ruler of Florence, maker of kings and popes, with secrets and plans, orchestrating and plotting as the Holy Roman Empire stands poised to change the face of the continent, and even the world.

Three brothers with uncommon gifts: Stefano, Antonio and Nicolo de' Medici, Veluria: an operative of the Sisterhood and Andreas, a cleric from the competing Council--strangers out of time and out of place--haunt a chaotic shadow world where knowledge is power. Tasked with averting disaster in a future falling prey to disintegration and yet another apocalypse, two operatives seek independently to stay events, to manipulate, control and direct, yet neither truly understands the scope of the looming tragedy, the shifting loyalties and matters of the heart, the acts of desperation that will change history, and the roles each will play.

Venice, a city of beauty whose canals string like pearls through her heart, a city on the edge, poised for a tumultuous plunge into a cavernous maw, indistinct, hazy, falling into ...The Shadow of This World.

Excerpt:

“Madame, this way, if you will.” Antonio held out a hand but Veluria brushed past him into the small walled garden. Faint echoes of waves slapping the stone abutment and the occasional skritching sound as pilings and piers groaned in unison led her to peer over the smooth granite cap lining the top of the barricade.

“This is lovely,” Veluria sighed, and truly meant it. Such retreats in the heart of the city were indeed rare and precious, and most unexpected in this, the center of the commercial and shipping district. The Grand Canal commanded her attention off to the southeast, and in the distance the stunning visage of the Rialto Bridge gleamed in the mid-afternoon sun. A slight breeze brought relief from the building heat. She felt a trickle of sweat along her spine and twisted uncomfortably against the stays.

“Is something amiss?” Antonio edged next to her, like a phantom morphing from the shadows. 
She would never get used to the man’s ability to materialize without warning into her very personal space. Such closeness bespoke an intimacy she feared and desired. She reached out for Stefano, seeking a measure of comfort to ground herself and restrain her developing attraction to the huge man who might hold the key for them all. Unfortunately her connection continued to degrade and she no longer commanded access to his thoughts or feelings. Why … she couldn’t be sure.

“No, signore, I am quite well, gracie. Such beauty,” Veluria waved a hand to encompass the vista spread before them, “gives me chills.”

What gave her greater chills was the brush of flesh against flesh as the Demon moved in close. He’d rolled up his sleeves in deference to the growing heat of the day, revealing deeply tanned muscular forearms. The brief touch seemed more deliberate than incidental.

“My father’s interests lay to the north.” Tonio pointed to a mass of imposing warehouses where the canal opened out onto a bay that fed eventually into the Adriatic. The sway of masts heralded the fleet of ships awaiting cargo. “Our mills in Florence require that we maintain a presence here in Venice.”

Veluria nodded with interest. She well understood the intricate interweaving of commerce, politics and war that dominated the fabric of the city and its denizens. The tall man, and his threatening visage, should have made him a natural fit in this theatre of avaricious pursuit of power, but somehow Veluria detected a depth to his character, something off-kilter, that had nothing to do with his heritage or the unusual ‘gifts’ he and his brothers wielded so adeptly.
“And exactly what is your role in all this?” Veluria decided to begin the inevitable interrogation on her own terms. She needed to define this man’s position, determine exactly how and why his energy so swamped her own abilities, before she could mine him for the location of the key, whatever ‘the key’ was. Euphemisms, the Holy Mother gloried in them.

Find the key, daughter, and save us all.

Well, she was convinced she had found the one who could lead her to the object of power, but what she would or could do with it remained to be seen.

Antonio’s gaze followed the petite woman’s, taking in the wall of algae coated stone across the canal. He drifted closer, drawn by the set of her shoulders and the graceful curve of her neck as it flowed like peach satin into the square-cut bodice. He approved of her lack of pretension, eschewing the bouffant sleeves and exaggerated skirts so common to Venezia. Unlike his brothers who seemed inordinately well-versed in fashion, Antonio preferred simplicity and elegance to the frippery and extravagance of his peers, male and female. He liked the cut of her gown, clinging to a narrow waist with just enough flare to accentuate her slim figure. 

Without a thought he fingered the leather lacing on her bodice, his mind racing as he imagined pulling the narrow thongs through the eyelets, slowly, enjoying the exquisite feel and the soft shushing sound—the promise of what lay beneath the smooth fabric. He imagined releasing her breasts into his hands, slipping the ribbed fabric away to drop carelessly to the ceramic tiled floor. Imagined undoing the braid that circled her beautifully shaped head, freeing the blue-black tresses to fall about her rosy-hued shoulders. Imagined cupping her chin in his rough hands, dark against light, pressing into the flesh until she bent back to receive his mouth.
The memory of their brief kiss still taunted him. That anyone could taste so sweet defied explanation. 

As he reached to pull a strand of hair off her neck, Antonio caught himself, appalled at what he was about to do. 

Mio dio, what is this? Where has my mind gone? This is insanity.

Insane indeed. This was his brother’s woman, as much as Cosimo might dispute that fact. Antonio had seen the looks exchanged between his brother and this woman. He didn’t need special skills to detect the connection they had with each other. That his beloved brother was entirely besotted by her concerned him, but he would do everything in his power to make sure that Stefano would have all that he desired. If this woman proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was worthy of Stefano’s trust and love, Antonio swore to himself that he would personally thwart his father’s grandiose schemes to see the lovers pulled asunder.
He owed Stefano that. It might be the only thing he could do to make amends for his rash and vicious attack on the boy. 

“Perdonatemi, mio signore, your father wants a word with you.” Cosimo’s manservant approached circumspectly, as if intruding on an intimate moment. That would surely give the man pause since in his long years of service he’d probably never once seen him so much as look at a woman, let alone engage in polite conversation on the terrace. 

“Gracie, Paulo. Please stay with Madame until I return.”

“M’Lord, your father wishes for me to bring,” Paulo stumbled as he had not been accorded the woman’s surname and feared using her given name in a gesture of disrespect, “Madame to your brother.” He hastened to add, “A light lunch awaits once your discussion is completed.” 

Breathing an obvious sigh of relief that the mercurial elder would find little fault with his delivery, Paulo held an arm out for Veluria.

Tonio held back, his gut in a knot. It was one thing to resolve to see to his brother’s happiness, even if that meant supporting a potentially unsuitable match. It was quite another when the debilitating headache returned at the mere thought of Veluria and Stefano together. 
He watched Veluria disappear into the palazzo, his face a grim mask of displeasure.

Author:

Writer, editor and hopeless romantic. Nya Rawlins lived on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay, has ridden more than 1000 miles in trail competitions on horseback, and has been owned by two Newfoundlands. She’s staff for a herd of cats and a herd of horses.

#1 GRAND PRIZE:

Kaki Warner's acclaimed trilogy: THE RUNAWAY BRIDES—three strong-willed women headed West in search of new lives. But when their train is stranded in a dying Colorado mining town, they get more than they bargained for…and find love where they least expect it.

GRAND PRIZE #2:

"Lightning paced, innovative, topical … and most of all, frightening." 
-- James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author

Summary:

Spring, 1768. The Southern frontier is a treacherous wilderness inhabited by the powerful Cherokee people. In Charlestown, South Carolina, twenty –five year-old Quincy MacFadden receives news from beyond the grave: her cousin, a man she’d believed long dead, is alive—held captive by the Shawnee Indians. Unmarried, bookish, and plagued by visions of the future, Quinn is a woman out of place … and this is the opportunity for which she’s been longing.

Determined to save two lives, her cousin’s and her own, Quinn travels the rugged Cherokee Path into the South Carolina Blue Ridge. But in order to rescue her cousin, Quinn must trust an enigmatic half-Cherokee tracker whose loyalties may life elsewhere. As translator to the British army, Jack Wolf walks a perilous line between a King he hates and a homeland he loves.

When Jack is ordered to negotiate for Indian loyalty in the Revolution to come, the pair must decide: obey the Crown, or commit treason ….

Excerpt:

Prologue

My story begins before the fall, in that Indian summer time when the hills are tipped with oncoming gold, and the light hangs just above the trees, dotting the Blue Ridge with gilded freckles. The mornings and the evenings are cool, but it is the mornings I remember most: waking before the men, wrapping a shawl around my shoulders and slipping out through the fields, the dry grass crunching beneath my boots. Drifting down from Tomassee Knob the mist would spread over the Keowee Valley in a great, rivering pool of gray, the sun rising in the east flecking the horses’ breath—suspended in the air before their nostrils—with slivers of shine. It was then the whole world was quiet, no crows eating my corn, the peacefulness not even broken by the bay of some wolf on the ridge, calling to the still-lit moon in the western sky. The whole world was silent then, and the Blue Ridge breathed beneath the deep purple earth. I thought I could feel it, a great heart beating in the wilderness.

He came to me in the morning. I had crossed the north fields and made my way to the creek at the edge of the forest to check on the last of the Solomon’s Seals I’d watched cling to the embankment in the final days of summer. Ferns reaching the height of my elbows billowed out from the ground, spreading for what looked like miles. The smell of sap emanated from fallen pines where woodpeckers searched for tiny bugs and snakes lay still in the cool undergrowth. Every once in a while a squirrel or rabbit leapt from its camouflaged hiding place, skirting the path I walked.

Coals from a recent fire smoldered black in a pile a few yards from a bend in the creek, and I looked up and farther into the woods, wondering if a Cherokee scout or perhaps a trapper had decided to take his rest on our land. But the woods were eerily still, and not a bird sang nor cricket chirped. There was no movement except for the creek itself, bubbling up against a tiny dam made by runaway branches, cane and weeds. My eyes came to rest across the creek on shadows at the bottom of an enormous oak. Suddenly, the shadows shifted, and the shape of a man stepped forward, seeming to emerge seamlessly from the trunk, his feet making no sound in the leaves.

The breath caught in a knot in my throat, and I placed a hand there, the other fumbling in my skirts for the lady’s flintlock I’d been given. He walked closer, still without sound, and stood watching me from the edge of the creek bed. I pulled the pistol from its hold, pointing it unsteadily at the stranger.

"Come no closer,” I ordered, the words tumbling awkwardly off my tongue and echoing softly in the small dip of valley.

He raised his head, eyes emerging from beneath the brim of a battered farmer’s hat. Across that creek they looked as green to me as moss growing on boulders in the water. His hair was long, the fawn color of a well-worn leather saddle, and the ends were tipped with the same pale blond that streaked through the rest, like he’d dipped his head in white paint. He looked like a white man turned savage, with his moccasin-laced boots and dirty, fringed deerskin shirt, a beaded strap crossing his chest, holding a hatchet and musket on his back. He did not speak, just looked at me from under that hat, shadows cast high on his cheekbones and the solid line of his jaw. The creek gurgling and my breathing were the only sounds. Soon, I knew, the settlement would awake, and the animals would need to be fed, the horses let to pasture.
Surely someone would notice I was missing.

It was the first time he had come to me, but it would not be the last. And though my story ends with him, he did not cause it to begin. I did that, on a midsummer day in the year of our Lord 1768, in the twenty-fifth year of my youth.

Author:

Katherine Scott Crawford was born and raised in the blue hills of the South Carolina Upcountry, the history and setting of which inspired Keowee Valley. Winner of a North Carolina Arts Award, she is a former newspaper reporter and outdoor educator, a college English teacher, and an avid hiker. She lives with her family in the mountains of Western North Carolina, where she tries to resist the siren call of her passport as she works on her next novel. Visit her website at www.katherinescottcrawford.com for more information, or to connect with her via Facebook and at her blog, The Writing Scott. 

#1 GRAND PRIZE:

Kaki Warner's acclaimed trilogy: THE RUNAWAY BRIDES—three strong-willed women headed West in search of new lives. But when their train is stranded in a dying Colorado mining town, they get more than they bargained for…and find love where they least expect it.

GRAND PRIZE #2:

"Lightning paced, innovative, topical … and most of all, frightening." 
-- James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author

Summary:

Amidst the snowy peaks of the Rocky Mountains in 1871, Daniel Hobart keeps to himself―a man with a hole in his heart that matches the scar on his face. But when Daniel starts having visions of a young girl crying out for help, he begins to fear that solitude may have caused him to lose his mind. Determined to find out the truth about the mysterious girl, Daniel travels into New Hope and learns that she’s the missing daughter of widow Lacy Ellis. 

After a year of heartbreak, Lacy isn’t sure what to make of Daniel’s claims of seeing her daughter. But when he sets out to find Hannah on his own, Lacy decides to join him, allowing herself one last chance to hope. And as they retrace the long-cold trail of Hannah’s disappearance, two broken people manage to take some small comfort in each other, and in the possibility of a miracle…

Excerpt:

“Snowing again.” Homer Cranston, the owner of the New Hope Mercantile, tossed wood into the smoking stove in the corner of the store, then let the lid close with a clang. “Snow, rain, and now snow again. Almanac said 1871 would be a wet one in the Rockies. For once, seems they were right.

Daniel Hobart looked up from the display case, curious to see who Cranston was talking to, then realized he was the only customer. He wondered why the storekeeper was being so friendly today. Folks in New Hope rarely were, at least toward him. In the eight months since he’d taken up solitary residence in the abandoned cabin north of town, he’d come to know only two men by name and none of the women. Which suited Daniel fine. At least people no longer stared at his face.

With a deep sigh, Cranston rested his elbows on the counter and stared glumly out the front window. “I hate snow.”

Knowing a response wasn’t required, Daniel bent again to study the items in the glass-fronted cabinet. It mostly held guns. But he was more interested in the knives.

A prickle along the back of his neck brought his head around. A familiar figure glided past the front window, eyes downcast, shoulders slumped as if an unbearable weight pressed down on her slender frame.

He slowly straightened.

She seemed sadder than usual. Maybe because of the season―Christmas was hard on some folks. Hard on him. Her aura of despair awakened an urge to go to her, say something, do something that might lift that veil of pain from her eyes.

But, of course, he couldn’t.

She stiffened. Her steps slowed. 

He braced himself, waiting for the moment she became fully aware of him. She always seemed to―and would pause to look around until her eyes met his. Not in revulsion or fear like some, but more in startled puzzlement, like she knew him but couldn’t place him.
They had never spoken. He didn’t know her name and hadn’t asked. But he recognized that depth of sadness in her eyes. Had seen it too often in his own reflection, until he’d gotten tired of looking at it and had driven his fist into the mirror.

Her gaze met his.

That shock of awareness hit him.  Familiar yet alien. A connection he didn’t understand. But it felt as real as a gentle touch on his damaged face. Defenseless against it, he could only stare back.

“Looking for a gun?”

“What?” Rattled, he looked back at the cabinet, trying to remember why he was there. “A knife.” 

“What kind?”

“Carving.” He glanced at the window again, saw the woman was gone, and let out a deep breath.

“Meat?”

“Wood.”

“What you making?”

Before Daniel could answer, the bell over the front door rang. 

In a blast of cold air, a man entered, his hat and shoulders dusted with snow. He gave Daniel a quick look, then, skirting the pack and snowshoes Daniel had left by the front wall, nodded to the proprietor. “Hidy, Homer. Those canned goods come yet?”

“In the stock room. Come on back.”

Saved from further interrogation, Daniel pushed the woman from his mind and resumed his study of the knives. 

There wasn’t much of a selection, and none was really suitable for intricate wood carving. But he was in the middle of his project and didn’t want to risk being snowed in through the rest of December without a means to finish it. 

Project? Obsession was more like it. He had a stack of furniture orders waiting in his workshop in the barn, but he was making a damned dollhouse. He had no use for the thing, had no daughters or nieces who might want it, and didn’t know any children in town he could give it to once he’d finished it. Yet the idea had taken hold of him back in early October and hadn’t given him a moment’s rest since. He’d missed meals, lost entire days carving and sanding and piecing together tiny wooden parts. He had even dreamed about it at night. 
Balancing a small crate on his shoulder, the other customer left, loosening a draft of cold air that sent flakes swirling across the threshold. 

Snow was coming down hard and fast now. Daniel couldn’t even see the buildings across the street, much less the steep walls of the canyon rising behind them. Typical of the unpredictable weather in the Rockies, after two days of unseasonable rain had turned the November snow pack into six inches of slippery slush, it was snowing again. He was glad he’d come on snowshoes rather than horseback.

“I’ll take that one.” He poked a finger against the glass, indicating a short-bladed knife with a leather sheath that was close in size to the one he’d broken. “And a whetstone.” He was counting out his coins on the counter when he felt a tremor beneath his feet. He looked around. “You feel that?”

“Feel what?” Cranston asked, scooping the coins into his palm. 

Another vibration rippled along the plank floor. “That.” Daniel heard yelling and looked out the front window to see figures running across the street. In the distance, a low rumbling sound. 

“Listen.”

The rumble grew louder. The vibration built, jiggling items off the shelves.

“Christ!” Wide-eyed, Cranston ducked beneath the counter as cans crashed around him. “What the hell?”

Daniel whirled toward the back window, saw a mountain of white racing toward him, and spun, arms up to protect his head. With a shriek of shattering timbers, the rear of the store blasted inward under a wall of snow that drove him backward. He slammed into the front wall and crumpled, arms locked over his head as the world caved in on top of him in a mangled mess of wet snow and glass and splintered wood.

Author:

In between her years as a mother, teacher, commercial artist, reluctant collection agent and surly secretary, Kaki fooled around with writing.  Then, in 2008, after twenty-five years of procrastination, she sent her first manuscript out into world.  Now, four years later, she has six books in print and is busily working on her next trilogy.

Although they’ll always be Texans at heart (and proud graduates of UT), she and her husband are happily retired on a mountaintop in the Cascade Mountains of Washington state, doing whatever they feel like doing―which in her case is writing and enjoying the wildlife and thinking up stuff for her husband to do.  It’s a grand life. 

For more information and excerpts of her books, please visit her website at www.kakiwarner.com

#1 GRAND PRIZE:

Kaki Warner's acclaimed trilogy: THE RUNAWAY BRIDES—three strong-willed women headed West in search of new lives. But when their train is stranded in a dying Colorado mining town, they get more than they bargained for…and find love where they least expect it.

GRAND PRIZE #2:

"Lightning paced, innovative, topical … and most of all, frightening." 
-- James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author

Summary:

A passion for humanity drives Rona Altrows’s Key In Lock. The people in these entertaining yet poignant stories wrestle with self-doubt, ethical dilemmas, money problems, health issues. Yet somehow they survive and sometimes they even thrive. Key In Lock also marks the return of Irene, beloved manager-in-all-but-name of Marjorie’s Lingerie introduced in A Run On Hose. This time Irene takes on issues as diverse as dating later in life, the effect of childlessness on a person’s psyche, stress incontinence, and the love rituals of banana slugs. Irene also brings us tales of her youth in the days of the polio epidemic and Vincent Price horror movies.

Excerpt:

A man needs a certain amount of intercourse. You can stay at the rubbing-pressing-groping stage for only so long. You may be able to stretch it out for months, which is how it’s been going with Raymond and me. When you are in your sixties, like we are, you like to extend everything out, move at a more relaxed pace, as though that will convince the Grim Reaper not to rush.

It’s not as if he’s said so in words, but through the way he acts, Raymond has shown me how he would like the scene to unfold; he’ll be ready any time I am. And to be fair to him, I can’t hold out forever. I mean, he has been patient, a gentleman—no pushing or insisting. But at some point, no matter how sweet a guy is, or how old, only penetration will do. I’m in a jam now. He’s great company, a fine man, and easy on the eyes, but I’ll never love him. What’s more—and this is the part that scares me right now—there’s something I don’t want him to know. If we keep seeing each other, there’s a chance he’ll learn my secret; if we go all the way, he’ll find out for sure. Can I live with that?

So I’ve given myself a deadline. Tonight. We’re going out to a movie, and then he’ll drive me back to my apartment for a drink. By then, I’ll have made up my mind.
Right now I’m still doing the back and forth. We humans would probably be better off if we were built more like banana slugs. In her university classes, my young friend Julie learns how animals go about their business. She knows I am curious and tells me the juiciest stuff, like the slugs’ story. She talks about how they court for hours, which is like years for them, and how they snack on each other’s slime before sex. But to me, the best part is the location of the genitals, not too far from the head. With that anatomy, I figure there’s a good chance that they use their heads when it comes to deciding about sex. Not like us. All that distance between the brain and the other place leads to nothing but trouble. Bad matches, heartache, aggravation—I’ll bet those are not major problems among the slugs.

And there’s another thing slugs have got on us—mucus. In slug sex, there is an exchange of mucus, which is what I will need more of if I am going to take that next step with Raymond. Not mucus exactly, but lubricant.

Author:

Rona Altrows was born and raised in Montreal and lives in Calgary, Canada. She is the author of two books of short stories, A Run On Hose and Key in Lock and is currently writing a book of flash fiction. She has received the City of Calgary W.O. Mitchell Book Prize and the Brenda Strathern Prize for her fiction and has been a finalist for the Howard O'Hagan Award for Short Fiction. Altrows's work has appeared in many Canadian and American magazines and ezines. With Naomi K. Lewis, she is co-editor of Shy, an anthology in which 39 writers reflect on their own shyness. Shy will be publshed in fall, 2013 by the University of Alberta Press.

#1 GRAND PRIZE:

Kaki Warner's acclaimed trilogy: THE RUNAWAY BRIDES—three strong-willed women headed West in search of new lives. But when their train is stranded in a dying Colorado mining town, they get more than they bargained for…and find love where they least expect it.

"Lightning paced, innovative, topical … and most of all, frightening." 
-- James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author

Summary:

Like most sisters, Marguerite and Eleanor were rivals.  They were also queens.

Raised at the court of their father, Raymond Berenger, Count of Provence, Marguerite and Eleanor are separated by royal marriages--but never truly parted.

Patient, perfect, and used to being first, Marguerite becomes Queen of France. But Louis IX is a religious zealot who denies himself the love and companionship his wife craves. Can she borrow enough of her sister's boldness to grasp her chance for happiness in a forbidden love?

Passionate, strong-willed, and stubborn, Eleanor becomes Queen of England. Henry III is a good man, but not a good king. Can Eleanor stop competing with her sister and value what she has, or will she let it slip away?

Excerpt:

Before my mother took her leave of me at Lyon, she gave me the most rudimentary idea of what would happen on my wedding night.  

“There will be pain,” she said earnestly, holding my two hands in hers as we sat side by side turned slightly together so that our knees just touched, “just as there will be when you bring forth the heirs of your husband’s body.  This is the price for the sinful pride of Eve.  But in it also lies a lesson: almost everything that you will take joy from in this life starts first with sacrifice.  Happiness must be paid for.”

I am a married woman.  Our vows were exchanged this morning on the steps of the Cathédrale Saint-Étienne while the carved figures of the ten virgins watched from above the central door.  And now I stand, virgin myself, trembling at the center of a bedchamber in the Archbishop’s palace.  It is richly hung with silks and strewn with flowers, just as the whole city is bedecked for the occasion of my marriage, yet I barely notice.  Word has come from the King that I am not to be undressed.

“Perhaps,” I hear Alix de Lorgues murmur to the others as they open the door to depart, “he wants the pleasure of unwrapping her himself.”  

The thick oak door falling shut behind them barely muffles the laughter this comment evokes.

I have nothing to do but wait in terror, and that will not do.  “The women of Savoy are prized for their serenity.”  I can hear my mother’s voice in my head admonishing Eleanor on the subject.  A frequent occurrence.  Would that my mother was here now, to hold me in her arms and soothe me.  I have missed her daily since we said our goodbyes, but never more than this moment.  Taking a seat on the edge of the bed I am determined to busy my mind with a closer examination of the room.  It is in most respects ordinary.  It does, however, contain the most elaborate prie-dieu that I have ever seen.  The prayer stool is heavily carved with extraordinary tracery and biblical scenes.  The carvings on the left side portray scenes from the life of the Virgin.  In the largest, a gilded holy spirit dips low over a swooning Mary.  Her hands are clasped and her eyes are closed, whether in joy or fear I cannot say.  At the moment the two emotions seem perilously close.

The door creaks.  My heart is in my throat.  Yet even so, I am aware of a strange sensation in a more private region, as if my blood is rushing there as well.  Louis smiles at me from the doorway.  He is so handsome.  I feel as if I know a secret or as if I have drunk too much of Father’s good wine, as Eleanor and I did once hiding beneath a table in the great hall at Aix. 
Rising quickly from my seat I drop low to a curtsey.  The effect of these rapid movements in combination with the wine I took at my nuptial dinner is to make me dizzy.  My unsteadiness must be noticeable for Louis comes forward quickly with gentle concern in his eyes and takes both my hands.  He touches the gold band that he placed on my third finger this morning.  

“My lady wife you are unwell?”

“No, Your Majesty, only tired.  There has been so much excitement.”  And then, worrying that I might be mistook, and my comment taken as complaint, I quickly add, “In all my life I have never beheld such wondrous things as in the last hours.”

“Your life, Marguerite, has not been very long yet,” replies Louis with an indulgent smile, “I trust that today will be but the beginning of many ‘wondrous’ occasions.”

“With God’s grace, Your Majesty, I pray that I shall indeed have many years to prove myself a faithful wife to you and a worthy Queen to your kingdom.”

The earnestness of my tone is not lost upon Louis and serves to light up his face in a manner I have never yet seen.  Pulling me to him, he whispers in my ear, “You must call me Louis when we are alone.”  Then his mouth finds mine.  Fear is driven back by the pressure of his lips.  As his tongue suddenly enters my mouth I find that I want him to touch me, even if there will be pain.  But as I press myself closer to him his mouth leaves mine and a groan like that of a man in agony issues from him.  What have I done?

Louis pushes me to arm’s length with great effort.  Gone is the radiant look.  Instead his eyes have a hungry and beseeching quality. “Will you pray with me?”

“Of course Louis, if you wish.”

Turning from me, my husband lights one of the tapers from the prie-dieu then uses it to ignite the others.  Taking my hand again, this time touching only the tips of my fingers, Louis leads me to the kneeler.

Together we kneel down and my husband leads me in prayer.

Hours later I hear the bells of the Cathedral where we were married chime thrice.  Louis, who like myself has for some time been praying in silence, crosses himself and says aloud:  “O God, you are my God, I seek you, my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you. . . .”
It is the prayer for Matins, we are half-way to dawn.  When he is finished, he rises stiffly.  “I would be in my rooms for Lauds,” he says by way of leave taking.  It is not clear whether he offers this information as explanation or excuse.

When he is gone, I get off my knees with great difficulty.  My legs are stiff and my feet nearly without feeling.  I stagger rather than walk to the great bed and fall upon it face first, fully clothed.  I am asleep before I can call for someone to undress me.  Asleep before I can even roll over.

Author: 

Sophie Perinot writes historical fiction. In March of 2012 her debut novel—a tale of two sisters who also happen to be 13th Century Queens—was released by NAL (New American Library). Ms. Perinot has both a BA in History and a law degree. After practicing antitrust and commercial litigation with a large Washington law firm, she left the law to pursue artistic interests, including writing. An avid reader, especially of classic literature, and life-long student of history, it seemed only natural that Sophie should write historical fiction. As someone who studied French in Switzerland and a devotee of Alexandre Dumas, French history was a logical starting point. 

Sophie is also active among the literary Twitterati where you can follow her as @Lit_Gal, as well as on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/thesisterqueens).  For more on Sophie and her book, The Sister Queens, please check out her website www.sophieperinot.com.

#1 GRAND PRIZE:

Kaki Warner's acclaimed trilogy: THE RUNAWAY BRIDES—three strong-willed women headed West in search of new lives. But when their train is stranded in a dying Colorado mining town, they get more than they bargained for…and find love where they least expect it

GRAND PRIZE #2:

"Lightning paced, innovative, topical … and most of all, frightening." 
-- James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author